


Scenes from a Conflagration

by deadlybride



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, F/M, Freeform, M/M, Season/Series 02, Underage Sex, Unresolved Sexual Tension, non-explicit references to non-con, sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-31
Updated: 2014-01-31
Packaged: 2018-01-10 15:42:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1161573
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deadlybride/pseuds/deadlybride
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Derek can't, or won't, give Stiles everything he wants. What he will, give, though--</p>
            </blockquote>





	Scenes from a Conflagration

**Author's Note:**

> Full disclosure: I haven't seen any of season 3, and am aware that some things in this fic are definitely no longer canon-compliant. Oh, well.

 

Stiles can't see what Derek's doing, because it's dark and because his eyes are half-blurred with tears and also because he's on his knees on his little double bed, forehead pressed into the pillow he's wrapped his arms around. If he craned his neck, if he could just gather some kind of composure or even just some motor function—but then the fingers in his ass twist, a little rougher, and he thinks he's probably drooling into the pillow, but he just can't take this anymore.

"Please," he says, or tries to say, but Derek only twists in harder, pressing his fingertips to that one spot and applying a constant, punishing pressure. It sends something blood-black and unbearable into the space behind his eyes and he can't make a single sound, can't even plead, because Derek's other hand is light on the inside of his thigh, stroking up in an unthinkable promise.

"Stiles," he hears, in the middle of all the heat and darkness, and he drops a hand to his cock, jerking, hips pushing back as he comes and comes, and all that's left as he collapses forward is a light, pleased chuckle behind him as Derek's fingers curl and slip out, leaving him to spasm, bereft.

 

No one is ever happy. Derek will settle for being alive.

For six years—no, it's seven, now—there's been a low burn of something running just under his skin. Acid in his blood. At first, he hadn't been sure he'd survive it. Laura had had to seize him by the scruff of his neck and drag him like a cur, running so hard they covered three thousand miles before they escaped the smell of smoke. They spent the first full moon after the fire on a bench in the park, all the confusing scents of New York spilling around them. Laura's eyes burned red the whole night, but she gentled Derek with his head in her lap, the edge of claws limning his throat, because Derek couldn't keep himself from changing. Not with the way his skin felt perforated, as though he'd been shot eleven times. Like the gaping holes would just keep spreading, until he was nothing but one big wound, until muscles and blood and raw bone were open to the air and there were no nerves left to flay.

It hasn't gotten better, exactly. He's just better at hiding it.

 

Stiles curls an easy arm around Derek's neck. Derek's not smiling, obviously, but he's not angry either and Stiles always counts that as a win. "Come on, you owe me, like, five orders of curly fries."

"Do I."

His hand is warm and light on Stiles' ribs, skating over his stomach under the thin fabric of the old t-shirt he's wearing. He doesn't know if it's his own or Derek's. "Yeah. And maybe some fish tacos. And a Frosty."

Derek settles, in that weird way where he hasn't moved, at all, and yet has melted, coiled tension seeping away until he curls along Stiles' back in one long warm stretch. His breath puffs, moist, against the shell of Stiles' ear. "I can't believe you function."

Stiles retaliates with a sharp elbow, rewarded by a surprised huff against his neck. "Teenage metabolism. That and all the running around I do after you jerks. Might have to take the bite if you ever settle down, just to keep my girlish figure."

It's a joke between them, kind of. Derek still hasn't laughed. Derek's mouth has settled at the curve of his shoulder, the sweep of long lashes soft against his sensitive neck. Stiles wants to stretch, wants to spread himself out and brush against Derek's body, wants to feel where he's still clothed, that tantalizing stretch of long legs and lean hips and an ache that Stiles knows he could relieve if only Derek would let him. It'd be easy, he knows—he's done it before, with a little fake yawn and a slow twist of his spine, letting himself push back into all that smooth heat. Derek will only pull away, though, will keep his distance and more besides, because for some reason Derek gives—gives with hands and tongue and voice and breath, gives until Stiles feel like he'll just crack in two under the heady weight of it—but Stiles is only ever allowed to take.

Stiles covers the hand on his stomach with one of his own and closes his eyes. "Okay, fine, we don't have to go yet. But now it's six orders."

He can feel it, just barely, when Derek smiles against his skin.

 

There's some math to be done. 1983 means that at time of death Kate Argent is twenty-eight. Six years gone means she is twenty-two. And if a boy is in school, a year or two behind his older sister, he is seventeen—or sixteen (or fifteen).

And if the boy is a little odd, a little reserved, and then one day he hears a new voice cheering for him in the stands at one of his baseball games, what is he to think? And then if the woman keeps coming to his games, and then if one day she's there at practice (he'd be nervous except she flashes him a bright, girlish grin and then doesn't seem so much older), and then if she holds out her hand to shake and tells him he's really good, really, and did he have plans after practice—well, then, maybe it'd be understandable if he didn't tell his sister, or his mother and father, or his little brothers.

Like all the best secrets, the woman is warm and happy and she makes him flush, because he really is bad at hiding things. The first day she only lets him pile into her beaten-up truck, not caring that he's sweating through the seats, and buys him a snow cone because _baseball in the summer isn't baseball without them_ , she says. He sits and mouths at the bright blue ice and is struck dumb, but somehow the silences never stretch out uncomfortably. She talks about growing up in Washington and playing baseball with her brother because softball was too girly, and she has a strawberry cone and her lips turn a dark, wet red, and the boy doesn't notice until she drops him off back at the school that he hasn't finished his own and he drinks the rest in one long gulp, syrup tacky-sweet at the back of his tongue.

It's a new moon on the fourth of July that year. After the fireworks are over and the crowds have gone home, it's easy to slip out into the night and find a battered old truck, to find a woman sitting on top of the cab and to make her laugh by nearly falling into the truck bed, by tripping over the hitch. No moon means the sky is full of more and brighter stars. The boy screws up his courage and asks if he can have a sip of whatever she's drinking out of a cool silver flask, and she pauses, but shrugs, and he pretends like he doesn't mind the oddly flowery taste as it burns down his throat. He's pretty sure he can't get drunk, but he starts to feel a little strange anyway, and then it's as though all his senses are heightened and as she peels down his jeans and pushes up his shirt and puts a cold whiskey mouth on him he flinches, each touch like the frigid burn of ice when his sister drops a cube down his shirt. Later, he'll remember that she asked him if it was okay. He has no idea how he responded.

By August the boy feels he has become a man in every way there is. By September, as she traps his wrists into the leaves in a little clearing and grinds down so tight it's almost painful, the boy tries not to buck his hips and wonders if this could be what love feels like, the way his chest feels hollow and full of burning, the way he can't help how his fingers curl around hers, the way that, when she's dragged everything out of him and left him gasping and wet in the dirt, she always leaves a bite on his shoulder where no one will see, playful and grinning and saying _so you'll know that you're mine_.

When the bus stops at the trail head at the edge of the woods, the boy follows his sister down the steps and tries not to think about whether he'll see the woman tonight. When his sister freezes and he almost runs into her, he shoves, because she's older and can take it. But then her hand is digging into his shoulder, right over the place where the woman leaves her mark, and his sister's claws are coming out into his flesh and he doesn't scream because his sister turns a white face to him and her eyes— _her eyes_. When they run toward the smell of smoke his senses are racing ahead of them, and he can scent charred maple and roasted meat and the faintest, escaping whiff of alcohol and gasoline and dark purple flowers, but the thing that makes the boy stumble, that makes him collapse against a tree and vomit before he even makes it to where his sister is howling over what used to be their family, is that underneath all those smells is a faint trace of strawberry syrup and a lacing of whiskey and the shampoo she uses in her bright blonde hair. _Older lovers_ , she'd said, letting him card the bright waves through his fingers, dizzy on her scent. _They're nothing but trouble_.

_I can handle a little trouble_ , the boy had said. _Don't you worry about me._

 

The logistics, in the end, aren't that hard to work out. During the summer Stiles and Scott have a long-standing tradition of crashing wherever they've landed when Scott can't play another second of Halo and Stiles' energy drinks have worn off. Their parents are loving, but also often absent, and Stiles knows his dad assumes he's at Scott's when he comes home to empty, quiet rooms, just as Ms. McCall assumes Scott is at the Stilinksi house when he's really wrapped around Allison, somewhere in the dark where they can be—uncomplicated.

So it's not hard for Stiles to be absent from his bedroom once or twice a week. After everything, in fact, it's really pretty easy to hide what he's doing from his dad. He'd thought, once, over an amicable family dinner of too-soft pasta and weirdly sweet canned marinara, of trying to explain at least this one thing to his father. His dad was talking about—something, the Seahawks' chances in the NFC West, or maybe about Rodgers' chances of another Superbowl ring—and Stiles was watching his familiar gestures and the almost territorial way he cradled his bowl of crappy noodles, and he thought, _I could tell him this one thing._ It's safer than all the other secrets Stiles carries around in his head. He'd thought, for a second, that it would have eased his dad's mind a little.

Right now he and Derek are lying quiet, his back tucked against a broad chest and arms bracketing his, warm, a thumb stroking idly over the fragile skin of his wrist. The current hideout is a half-built hotel, its construction halted by the recession and never really continued. The owners were going for a rustic cabin feel, and so the large room Derek has taken over on the first floor has a fake stone fireplace, real wood floors, exposed beams that make dark shadows on the ceiling. Stiles thinks it was probably supposed to be some kind of conference room. Someone, probably whoever tagged the wall of the empty lobby with emo poetry, has left a giant lumpy couch and a camp stove. Once, Stiles was taking a leak against one of the trees outside and found himself pissing on old needles. So, no, this isn't the first time someone's squatted here, but apparently it's not the kind of place you miss.

Derek's radio only picks up about four stations, so they're listening to really bad commentary for tonight's Giants game. The announcer has mispronounced Lincecum's name three times and Stiles has come up with biting commentary for all three infractions, but Derek's careful thumb on his skin keeps him quiet. The Dodgers are losing pretty badly, because Kemp's got a broken wrist and Manny Ramirez hasn't hit anything all night. As far as he knows, Derek doesn't have a favorite team, but he does have a single Yankees t-shirt that came back from New York with him. Stiles forbore, barely, from comment. His sister might have given it to him, who knows.

The camping lantern in the corner spreads bright-white light up the bare walls. Stiles turns his wrist in Derek's grip and it instantly goes light, letting Stiles move wherever he pleases—but all he does is grab Derek's hand and haul it up his chest, holding it carefully against his heart. The Dodgers manage a line drive that leads to a double, and after a startled second Derek's fingers curl into Stiles' flannel shirt and hang on, just a little tighter.

The logistics of finding time to be with Derek are easy, yes. The logistics of this part, Stiles can't claim to understand. Derek communicates with touch, with long, steady looks, but of course they haven't—nothing's been declared. Stiles is sitting between Derek's legs and he hooks his free hand over Derek's shin, trying to focus on the worn-soft denim under his fingers when a thumb starts to stroke purposefully over his chest, when it traces the slight definition of his pectoral muscle. He's already breathing a little heavier. He wonders, not for the first time, how loud his pulse must sound to Derek. How much more intense under the hypersensitive pads of his fingers the throb of it must be—as it must be now, when Derek is pulling up their joined hands to stroke over the thin skin of Stiles' throat. He makes an abortive noise, mouth still closed tight, and Derek gathers him back enough that he can press a kiss to Stiles' temple.

"The Dodgers suck," Stiles blurts out. He's holding onto Derek's hand far too tightly, but he can't help it.

Derek's mouth twitches a little against his temple. "You're just mad that we're only a run away from tied."

He hasn't pulled away. Stiles presses back into Derek's chest, letting his head tip back against the muscular arch of one shoulder, which flexes accommodatingly when Derek adjusts his arm. With how tight Derek's jeans are, Stiles can't feel anything against his lower back, but—God, he wants to. He presses back a little more. "It'll never happen. They're an insult to the National League."

"Doesn't take much to insult the National League," Derek says, as the Giants manage to strike out the next batter. He lets his thumb rest in the hollow of Stiles' throat.

He hardly has to ask for anything, hasn't since that first bewildering time in his bedroom with Derek's mouth careful at his neck and his hands fumbling at Stiles' jeans. He knows Derek isn't psychic, knows that he's just using all those amazing senses to track when Stiles' breath hitches at a particular touch, when his heart beats a little faster. But—well, Derek doesn't give him everything he wants. He just knows how to make what he will give so good Stiles can hardly breathe through it.

A hand splays broad over his stomach, petting over the flannel and settling, warm, on the thin fabric of his undershirt. The thumb is still resting at his throat and he can feel the little weight of it every time he manages to suck in a breath. A fingernail is scratching just under the swell of his clavicle, pushing down the collar of his shirt, and there's no earthly reason why it should feel so good, but it does. It does.

The announcer is talking to his color guy during the seventh inning stretch and Stiles turns his face toward the back of the couch, baring his neck a little more. "Seriously, they need to fire this guy and get someone else to do the commentary. Anyone."

Derek's mouth drops to the straining tendon in his throat, as he knew it would, and presses a slow kiss to it, hot with the faint touch of his tongue. When Derek murmurs, "Who would you hire instead?" his breath makes the wet spot cool and Stiles shivers.

There's a pause while Derek's mouth moves up to a spot just behind Stiles' ear and the hand on his stomach slides under the shirt, touching skin at last. Stiles loses the thread for a few seconds. Derek's hand is softer than it has any right to be with the life he leads, but—werewolf healing, no need for calluses. Blunt nails scrape gently through the hair on Stiles' stomach and he gulps in a deep breath and says, "Bob Uecker, obviously," and for a moment can't remember what that means. The hand on his stomach slides up and grazes over his already-tightened nipple and he jerks forward, hauling both of his shirts off and over his head in a single motion.

He doesn't usually—interrupt, and when Derek doesn't say anything for a few seconds he almost starts to worry, but then smooth hands settle on his sides and pull him back into place, a little higher in Derek's lap so he's almost, but not quite, sitting on him, and his eyes close tight in relief.

"Is Uecker still alive?" comes the soft answer against the top knob of his spine. It's followed by another slow, open kiss, almost more heat than pressure, at the nape of his neck. One hand leaves his side to stroke over his bicep and forearm, caging his wrist in the lightest possible hold; the other slides low on his abdomen, where his muscles are already starting to quiver a little in anticipation. The hand rubs a slow circle, which is probably meant to be soothing, but Stiles just arches his back in unintentional response. It presses his ass back into Derek's lap and the hand on his wrist releases.

"Yes!" he says, eyes flying open. He hopes he didn't sound as panicked as he feels and keeps talking, tries not to move back any more than he has though he really, desperately wants to. "Yes, he's alive, he's hilarious and he played against Koufax, he's got a statue at Miller Park, you'd have heard if he died, I promise."

He's breathing hard, sounds like an idiot. Play has resumed in the game and Ramirez is up to bat again. Lincecum throws a strike and Derek lets out a quiet breath. "I don't pay much attention to players from fifty years ago."

Stiles closes his eyes again when Derek's hands settle back on his skin. He's sitting flush against a hard line of pressure and this is the closest Derek has ever let him come to reciprocation—he's not going to ruin it. The tips of Derek's fingers slide just under the loose waist of his jeans, brushing the elastic of his boxers, and he wants to tip his head back for a kiss but doesn't dare to. "Maybe—" he starts, but it cracks embarrassingly and he has to wet his lips. "Maybe you just need to watch more baseball movies."

"Maybe," Derek says, but it's up against the side of his neck, and one finger is tapping the top button on his fly in a little, obvious question, and Stiles is nodding before Derek can say anything. Derek tugs at the denim one-handed and the old jeans come loose easily, all five buttons on the fly popping open. Stiles can't help wriggling a little to help Derek push them and his boxers down. The grip on his arm tightens for one painful second, but Stiles gets both of his hands on Derek's knees and is biting back an embarrassing sound at the feel of Derek pressed up behind him, and Derek's grip moves from his wrist to brace one arm around Stiles' ribs as, at last, those ridiculous soft fingers slide down to wrap around Stiles' rapidly filling cock.

Stiles drops his head back against Derek's shoulder again and a damp mouth appears at his temple, on the smooth plane of his cheekbone, moving from his jaw to the buzzed-soft edge of his hairline. He's breathing hard and shaky already, but he can't help it. Derek's grip is just right, of course, moving easy and just this side of too tight. He still can't quite believe he's allowed to be where he is, that he gets what Derek is giving, and when Derek lets go and licks his hand, bringing his palm back to Stiles hot and slick, Stiles digs his fingers into Derek's thighs and just tries not to move.

The Dodgers are coming back with another run and it's tied, and the Giants are switching to their backup pitcher, and Stiles is trying his damnedest to pay attention to that when Derek's hand is just getting slicker because Stiles is leaking, trapped between wet pressure on one side and that endless warm stretch on the other. He makes a high-pitched sound at the back of his throat when Derek's thumb drags messily through his slit and Derek's left arm tightens around him for a second before he pulls away. Stiles is jostled on his lap and he moans out loud when Derek takes his hands off, but he's only shoving Stiles' jeans further down until Stiles gets the idea and twists eagerly to get his legs free. Once they hit the floor with a thump Derek is putting both hands back, cupping Stiles' balls in a warm-soft grip and using the room afforded by Stiles' now-spread thighs to really work, and Stiles knows that if Derek keeps going he'll be done in a minute—maybe less. He flexes his shoulders and is reminded, with a shock, of Derek's body, tense behind him, closer than he's felt in months.

"Wait," he says, before he can lose his courage. Derek's hands stop moving immediately and the mouth at his throat pulls back. To plunge his hand into the crack between the cushion and the back of the couch he has to release his white-knuckled grip on Derek's leg, and his fingers actually ache as he fishes in the dark, close space, ache as they close around a faintly sticky bottle and pull it back out into the light. He's glad Derek never bothers to clean.

Before Derek can ask, he's dragging himself over, nearly elbowing Derek in the chest before a wet hand is grasping his arm, steadying him as he flops onto his front. He's sure surprise is the only thing he has going for him right now and so settles quickly, knees on either side of Derek's hips, hands pressed against Derek's chest. He'd slipped down when they moved to get Stiles' jeans off, so he's lying almost flat, but it's still not easy for Stiles to meet his eyes. They've done a variation on this theme dozens of times, but Stiles so rarely gets to see Derek's face and never, ever gets to touch him.  Derek's mouth is softly open, startled, but Stiles closes his eyes and stretches forward, applying a clumsy kiss to a random spot on Derek's jaw instead. The stubble there presses sharp into his lips.

He balances on his knees and fumbles one of Derek's hands off his waist, where they'd settled like just-startled birds. He presses the little sticky bottle into Derek's chest and puts Derek's palm on it, feels as his fingers close over it. "Please," he says, into the warm space between Derek's neck and shoulder, and doesn't know how else to ask for what he's asking for.

Derek's other hand flies from his waist to his jaw and he's hauled up into a kiss—a real one, teeth clashing, Derek's tongue licking over the curve of his top lip. He has to plant a hand next to Derek's shoulder to stop from falling off the couch completely. He's distracted by the kiss, but not enough that he doesn't notice when Derek's hands disappear to fumble with the lube, brushing against the small of his back as he struggles with the slick bottle. Stiles doesn't have a lot of experience with kissing, but he tries to make it good, to do what he's read about. He lets his free hand brush over Derek's chest in little, fluttering touches. When he starts to push his shirt up to do a little exploring of his own, Derek stops him with a hand on his wrist—but any disappointment is allayed by a slippery touch landing at the very base of his spine.

He inhales, sharp, through his nose, and pulls back from Derek's mouth to breathe. Two fingers slip over the swell of bone and slide down without hesitation, pressing flat over his hole, right where he wants them. Derek puts a hand on the back of his neck and he goes down, dropping to his elbows and laying his whole weight on Derek's chest, spreading his knees wider over Derek's hips. His breath's coming hard and fast against Derek's neck, but he presses his forehead into the damp cushion and concentrates.

They've done this before, too, but not like this. Derek's middle finger massages a slow circle, the others sliding slow and wet and making him slick. On his neck, Derek's thumb slides up into his hair and strokes firmly over the little dip at the base of his skull. He exhales hard, feeling suddenly boneless, and a finger slides into him, all the way up to the knuckle. He sucks in a gasp so quickly he coughs, and then a kiss is being pressed awkwardly against his shoulder even as he shifts his hips, his still-sticky dick sliding up against Derek's bared stomach. The finger slides out, comes back as two, and he rocks with it because it shouldn't feel as good as it does. Derek always knows, though, and the stretch isn't too rough because he's taken two before, when Derek lets him have this, and he knows how fantastic it can be.

Derek sets an easy, shallow pace to start, just as Stiles needs. He likes the way it's hard for Derek's fingers to move, at first, how even despite the liberal use of lube he's too tight for it to be a smooth motion. He loves how he can feel every centimeter of Derek's skin as his fingers move in and out; loves that they're big, broad at the knuckles, even if they're not as long as Stiles'. He's done this to himself, a few times, but it's never quite as good. And, as he slowly loosens until he's slick and hot, his hips moving of their own volition to meet Derek's hand, he realizes that it's never been quite as good as this.

Derek's other hand is roaming, now, settling heavy on his lower back, dragging up his spine, holding the nape of his neck when he pushes against Stiles' prostate and Stiles lets out a moan. He's arching his back, torn between rubbing his dick into Derek's abdomen and pushing backwards onto Derek's fingers. He shifts on his elbows and his chest drags against Derek's, the rucked-up t-shirt coarse against his nipples, and his knee slides out from under him to drop his weight firmly into Derek's lap.

This close, he can't miss the gasp Derek lets out, and for a moment he wonders if somehow his senses are heightened, too, because there's a pulse hammering just under his, heavy breath matching his own. He can feel the muscles in Derek's forearm shifting against the bare skin of his back and he turns his face into the damp of Derek's neck. The air he's taking in is hot and smells of sweat and when he presses his temple just under the sharp turn of Derek's clenched jaw he can feel that solid heartbeat. "Oh my God, more," he says, half-muffled against Derek's skin.

Yet again he feels like he's skirting a boundary. Stiles hardly ever asks and he's done it so much tonight he's sure that somewhere Derek will stop at one of those dozens of invisible lines Stiles never knows are there until he's already crossed them. He's not even sure, now, what _more_ would be. He already feels like he's coming apart.

Derek slows, but doesn't quite stop. His fingers turn a little, go down and in with a hard pulsing pressure, and Stiles is breathing open-mouthed and starting to tremble in all the ways he's sure Derek has memorized. His dick aches and he wants to reach down, if only to ease the way he feels like he's going to shred out of his skin, but he just can't seem to move his hands from where they've shoved under Derek's back. He can feel the long muscle next to his shoulder blade move when Derek adjusts his arm and he wants to dig his fingers in, wants to claw his shirt off, but he can't. "Please," he says again, and Derek's chest expands against him when he inhales as though he's going to say something.

He doesn't say anything. The pressure in Stiles eases, and then pulls back, and for a moment he can't breathe—and then three fingers come back, wider and thicker, and Stiles bites into Derek's neck because this is new, he hasn't— _oh, God,_ he thinks, and it hurts a little but Derek doesn't slow down because he knows Stiles doesn't need him to. He's tight again and Derek just pushes until he's all the way in, to the knuckles, his thumb on Stiles' tailbone and his pinky snug against Stiles' perineum and Stiles thinks he'll stop there, let Stiles adjust, but he doesn't. It's hard, but not fast, pausing for half a second to dig into Stiles' prostate before pulling away again.

It's shockingly good and Stiles is close. He's not even moving back against Derek now; it's all he can do to hold still and try to bear up under the sensations. Derek is breathing fast against his bare shoulder. Stiles tries to land a kiss on the place he bit, but his eyes are blurring and it's not as though even a mark has been left behind. The hand on the back of his neck is squeezing tight, when Derek is usually so careful, and he wonders for a dizzy moment if he'll come out of this with bruises.

His thighs are shaking and he can't seem to get enough breath, but though he's so close he needs something more. He knows what he'd like best but Derek won't—can't—doesn't do that, won't let him give anything back, won't cover him with his weight and do everything Stiles thinks about when he's alone and desperate. He's desperate now, though. With difficulty he shifts on his elbows, drags his hands out from under Derek's shoulders. He pushes up and Derek's hand moves from his neck to help balance him—but he doesn't need that. He sinks backwards onto Derek's fingers and tries to keep his weight steady on his knees and grabs Derek's hand off his waist, circles the wrist  and drags it up.

"I just—" he starts to say, but how can he explain it out loud when it's so much easier to bring Derek's hand to his face and suck in the thumb, to finally get something in his mouth and resting heavy on his tongue. He opens his eyes, and though it's blurry and sparking with wet shattered light, he finds Derek's face. The pressure against his prostate is heavy and constant, his dick grinding tight against Derek's stomach, and he sucks hard, holding tight to Derek's wrist so he can't draw his hand away when the soft pad of the thumb drags silky against the inside of his cheek. He's sure he's biting but he can't care. Derek is staring up at him with an open mouth and he lets his fingers  curl around the edge of Stiles' jaw, holding his face so carefully even as his other hand moves faster, harder, and Stiles thinks _this is almost it, this could be enough_ , and then he isn't thinking anything at all because the world comes apart.

He doesn't pass out, but apparently loses a few seconds because when he can open his eyes again he's on his side, head tucked under Derek's chin. He's still shaking. One of Derek's hands is on his heaving ribs, a soothing weight even if it is sticky with lube. The other he still has in a death grip which he loosens only slowly, watching as the finger marks fade from white to unblemished tan. His thumb is still shiny with Stiles' spit and he doesn't mind in the slightest when Derek traces it over his lips, his cheek, limning the line of his cheekbone with cool wetness. He rests his forehead on Derek's sternum and tries to control his breathing.

On the radio, the game is winding to a close. Somehow, when Stiles wasn't paying attention, the Giants managed to lose their lead. The Dodgers are up three and, as his muscles slow their twitching and cool down, the pitcher throws a third strike and the idiot announcer says _Padilla has KOed the last batter and the Dodgers have won the game!_ He pronounces it with a hard L sound.

"It's _pa-di-ya_ ," Stiles mutters into Derek's shirt, and Derek's chest shifts slightly when he lets out a little huff of laughter.

"Told you they'd win."

Stiles punches him, but lightly, and Derek just captures his hand, presses it back over his chest. Stiles curls his fingers into Derek's t-shirt and can feel how fast Derek's heart is still beating. He shifts a little, pushes his knee between Derek's before he can talk himself out of it, and though Derek's breath hitches he allows it. His jeans are tight, but Stiles can feel where they're tighter. He can't do anything about it, not tonight, especially when Derek's muscles have all locked up against him, tension singing against Stiles' bare skin. He doesn't move and after a long minute Derek relaxes, in slow increments, until his thumb is petting idly over Stiles' side and his heart is finally steady.

Stiles closes his eyes. "You're not always right," he says.

Derek kisses the top of his head. "Sometimes, though."

Stiles sighs. "Sometimes."

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I keep toying with the idea of writing more of this, to explain why Derek acts as he does, but--I'm not sure it's necessary. Feedback would be kind!


End file.
